Jackie's Camino Caper
by MistyMountainHop
Summary: Jackie gets the taste for stealing after taking Casey Kelso's clock radio. She sets her sights on her biggest prize yet — Hyde's car — but Hyde proves he's no easy mark.
1. The Break-In

**Disclaimer:** _That '70s Show_ copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.

CHAPTER ONE **  
THE BREAK-IN**

The keys to Hyde's Camino were missing.

Not misplaced. _Missing._

Hyde had ransacked his room looking for them. He'd checked every drawer and pocket he owned, but all he found were two pennies and a crumpled cigarette. His house keys were on the dresser, where he usually left them. His Camino keys, however, had their own key chain It was a safety precaution. _"Never put your keys in one basket, man,"_ Leo had told him once. _"That way, if you lose half of them, you'll know where the other half is … or is that eggs?"_

The idiom was wrong, but Hyde had taken Leo's advice. Home for him was a temporary state, just like family. He'd learned that lesson well the last two years. The Camino, though—it was as close to permanent as any place would get. And it was mobile, perfect for someone who needed to keep on moving.

He peeked inside his baggie of pot, a last-ditch guess. Maybe he'd gotten so stoned last night he'd dropped the keys into his stash. It was a possibility. An embarrassing one.

Spring break had allowed for extended, solitary toking sessions, but getting that high brought strange thoughts and lapses of memory. Had someone been in his room last night? He couldn't remember, and his neck and face grew hot with blood. Blacking out was his parents' deal, but apparently it had become his, too.

His fingers dug through the green. No keys. The only escape his stash offered was from one dead end to another.

"Damn it!" He slammed his hand against the dresser. The prospect of turning eighteen hovered over his neck like a guillotine blade. He'd planned on driving to the lake today. Communing with nature would give him perspective, renew his faith that endings always led to some kind of beginning.

But he didn't have his keys, so he couldn't drive anywhere. Clearly, they weren't in his room. One of his bonehead friends must have borrowed them.

He went into the basement, where those bonehead friends were watching _The Hollywood Squares._ A game show's title had never been more apt, but he kept the observation to himself. Forman was in Hyde's chair, sitting a good distance from Donna. Eight months they'd spent like that, on the opposite sides of a room. Their breakup seemed a done deal, but Hyde couldn't change it. Reality inevitably swerved in an unexpected directions. All a person could do was try to hold on.

"Forman," he said, "you see my car keys 'round here?"

Forman glanced at the spool table, as if that counted as a thorough search. "Nope. Sorry."

"Man..." Hyde rubbed the nape of his still-hot neck, "I turned my room inside-out, but I can't find the freakin' things."

"Maybe aliens took them," Kelso said. He was sprawled out on the couch, knees wide apart. "Aliens'll take anything."

Fez nodded beside him. "It's true. Rhonda bought me M&Ms for our six-month anniversary, but all I got was a giant, empty bag. She said aliens sucked the candy right out of it..." He bared his teeth and shook his fist in the air. "Get your own candy, you stupid aliens!"

"Yeah, aliens didn't eat your candy, Fez," Hyde said. "Your chick did." His patience was disintegrating, but he forced his voice to remain even. "But I don't got a chick, so where the hell are my keys?"

Donna's face paled. She was sitting in Fez's usual spot and clutched the arms of the lawn chair. Paul Lynde had just made a corny joke. It epitomized what Hyde despised about _The Hollywood Squares,_ but she usually enjoyed that kitsch. "Hyde," she said when the TV audience quit laughing, "where did you park your car?"

"Where I usually do, back of the house."

"Go see if it's still there."

"What're you talkin' about?"

"Just—oh, God." She pushed herself off the chair, but Hyde got to the basement door first. He yanked it open and charged up the stone staircase. "Hyde, wait!" she yelled after him, but slowing down wasn't an option.

His palms smashed into the backyard fence gate. It swung open, and he bolted across the grass, but the space through the trees was empty. The shining, black hood of his Camino should have filled the gaps.

Pressure built in his chest as he unlocked the fence's back gate. He raced from one end of the street to the other. No cars were in sight, and his breath exploded in rib-rattling scream.

"Hyde?" Donna said behind him.

"My baby!" he shouted. "Someone stole my baby!"

A hand clasped his shoulder, and Hyde whipped around. Fez had followed him, along with the rest of their friends, and stared at Hyde with tearful eyes. "Rhonda might have my heart, but I'm still your baby."

"No, man, the Camino! Who stole my car?"

Donna stepped forward. "I … might know."

"Your moron boyfriend?" Hyde said. "Casey got bored with the Trans-Am, so he figured he'd take a Camino out for a spin?"

" _No,_ " she said, fists clenched. "Kelso's little felon of a girlfriend. She's been on a thieving kick."

Forman laughed. "Come on."

"Yeah, Donna," Kelso said. "Jackie's not a felon. She might be tiny, but she's all woman."

"Not _fellow,_ you dink." She smacked Kelso's arm. " _Felon._ Yeah, she stole your brother's clock radio last week, and where do you think she got that wedge of Gouda the other day? Stole it from her job. And this morning she tried to take my stereo! I caught her before she could unplug the wires, but who knows what else she's stolen?"

"I do," Hyde said. "My car."

He paced the street, but he had to come up with a plan. Speeding thoughts kicked up smoke in his skull. Ideas were competing in a drag race, and one hit the finish line first. "Time to teach that chick a lesson," he said aloud. "She can't go sneakin' into people's rooms and swiping their stuff. If she's gonna steal, she needs to do it from the mall like the rest of us."

His muscles tensed. His friends' stares were on him, and he quit pacing. Silently, they seemed to be asking the same question. He answered with a shrug. A guy had to get his spray paint from somewhere.

* * *

The walk to Jackie's neighborhood usually took twenty-five minutes. Hyde got there in under twenty. Revenge was his gasoline, but his friends had insisted on coming with him. They'd matched his speed, even when he broke into a run, and they caught their breath down the road from his destination.

The Burkhart Mansion.

It rose above the surrounding houses like a hill fort, situated on an elevated tract of land, but it didn't have the defenses of a castle. In fact, the property had no security at all except for a short, spiked steel gate. A family that rich should've at least had a guard dog.

Hyde jumped the gate, not for the first time, and landed on the gravel driveway. His friends' shoes crunched the gravel moments later, and Fez slipped. "Amateurs," Hyde muttered. He was here to case the joint, not play babysitter, but he helped Fez to his feet.

"Hate to break it to ya, buddy," Kelso said, pointing toward the house, "but your car's not here."

The Camino wasn't in view, but that meant nothing. Jackie could've hid it in the garage, but the driveway had obvious tire tracks. "Hate to break it to ya, man," Hyde said and thumped Kelso's back, "but you're an idiot."

Kelso flinched, and his eyes revealed a total lack of understanding. "Huh?"

Hyde wasted no time elaborating. He followed the tire tracks to the Burkharts' expansive, landscaped backyard. His car was parked on the grass, sunlight glinting off the hood, as if it had been waiting for him.

"Well, what do you know?" Forman said. "Jackie _is_ a little felon."

"Told you," Donna said, but Hyde dashed to the Camino and checked it over. The bumpers were intact, and the paint hadn't been scratched. The chassis wasn't dented, but how did the car run? Jackie's crappy driving might've wrecked its insides. She'd done major damage to Kelso's first van by not paying attention, and that was with an automatic transmission. The Camino had a stick shift. Using it properly was an art, requiring a know-how and practice she didn't have.

He tried opening the driver-side door, but it was locked,. He peered up at the house. Breaking in couldn't be that hard. "I gotta swipe my keys back—and take somethin' of Jackie's as payback."

"Ooh, like her virginity?" Fez said.

Kelso chuckled. "I already did that."

"Barely." Hyde rammed his fist into Fez's shoulder. "And, you—don't joke about stealing anyone's virginity, man. That ain't somethin' up for grabs."

Fez rubbed his arm and frowned. "Mine is. I've been begging Rhonda to steal it for months."

Hyde ran his hand over the Camino's hood. It was smooth, warm to the touch, and soothed his agitated mind. He'd taken Fez's statement too seriously, but with Fez one could never tell. The more Big Rhonda denied him, the worse his attitude became.

"Hey," Donna said, drawing Hyde's attention, "you should join me at one of my feminist rallies."

"Oh, you still go to those?" Forman said. "I thought Casey had Trans-Ammed the feminism out of you."

She moved toward him, biceps flexing beneath her tight sleeves. "Would you get off that already? Just because I like my boyfriend's car doesn't mean I'm a bimbo."

"Well, you never acted all..." Forman wiggled his fingers in the air, and his voice rose to a feminine pitch, "'Oh, my God, Vista Cruisers kick ass!' around my car."

"Because it's a freakin' 1969 Oldsmobile station wagon—"

"Okay, enough!" Hyde wedged himself between her and Forman. "We get it. You two got divorced and wanna bicker, but you're screwing my concentration." He waved toward the driveway gate. "All of you scram and let me do what I came here to do."

They did as he said, though not quietly. Kelso and Fez pelted gravel at each other while Forman and Donna argued. But silence came eventually, and Hyde studied the house's second-floor windows. The pair with the pink curtains had to be Jackie's. They had no bars, and opening one would probably be the easy part.

But he had to get up to it first.

* * *

Hyde returned to the Burkhart Mansion around one a.m. He'd hauled Red's extension ladder across town and, except for muscle fatigue, had no problems. Folks in Point Place didn't tend to wander the streets late at night. That was good. Their penchant for staying home had kept this caper from becoming a _Three Stooges_ routine.

The ladder went over the Burkhart's driveway gate with a clank. He winced at the volume, but the house windows didn't light up. With any luck, Jackie's family would snore through his trespass. The weather was already on his side. Though cold, the night wasn't windy or wet. Two less factors he had to worry about.

Stone pedestals, glowing with soft light, lined the driveway. He followed them to the backyard and held in a laugh. The Camino was parked where he'd last seen it, proof of Jackie's amateurism. She should have moved it into the garage, but her Burkhart arrogance had left him a getaway car.

He swung his backpack off one shoulder. His flashlight was inside, but the stone pedestals lit the house. _Convenient._ It meant maneuvering the ladder wouldn't be a problem. His flashlight could remain where it was, giving him the use of both hands.

He laid the ladder against the house and glanced up. Jackie's bedroom windows were dark. They had to be twenty-feet up from the ground, and adrenaline shot into his arms. He'd never sneaked into a window so high before, but lectures from Red about ladder safety banged around his skull. He always listened to them when cleaning the Formans' gutters, and he did the same now.

With the ladder positioned, secured, and extended to its full height, he started to climb. The effort shouldn't have affected him, but his heart pounded at each step. If he couldn't get Jackie's window open, he was done. Worse, if he used too much force, he could alter the ladder's angle and plummet to his death.

Mortality 101. Today's lesson: leaving his corpse under Jackie's window.

His palms grew sweaty with the thought, so he quit thinking. Staying calm was essential to this caper, and a few rungs below his target, he allowed himself three deep breaths. The plan. He had to stick with the plan. His denim jacket contained several burgling supplies—a Phillips head screwdriver, for one—but Jackie's window was already open. Just a few inches, but it was enough.

Her underestimation of him was amusing. She might as well have put up a flashing, neon sign saying, "Hyde, please break in!"

The window opened wide with two shoves. He climbed one more rung, grabbed ahold of the sill, and pulled himself into the room. Jackie's curtains scraped against his hair. The sensation prickled his skin, and he landed on a hard pile that collapsed beneath him. _Books._ Who the hell left books by a window?

Jackie uttered a soft, wordless sound. Her bed was too close for comfort, but his graceless landing hadn't woken her. Her body was a shadowy lump. It rose and fell with her breath, but it could just as easily detonate with a scream.

He had to move and fast. He stayed low to the floor and crawled to her desk. It was on the other side of the room, a decent distance from her, but he didn't stand at his full height. The less of a presence he was, the better. He kept his flashlight in his backpack for the same reason. Instead, he chose Mrs. Forman's medical penlight, the one she used to check sore throats. He pressed the button at the top, emitting a thin but bright beam.

Makeup, perfume, a hand mirror—these took up most of the desk's real estate, but his keys had to be some place visible. Jackie was the kind of person who enjoyed her victories. She wouldn't hide her trophies. Those books by the window were probably some of her scores.

He aimed the penlight at her double dresser but discovered only a stereo and a lava lamp. Her single dresser was a cluttered mess, covered by a small TV set, a bunch of records, and a few magazines. Had she put his keys on her own key chain? Was she that nuts? He went back to the desk and opened its two drawers. They were filled with paper, sheets of stickers, and pens. He rifled around in them and pain pierced his middle finger.

His teeth clenched, holding in his shout. The room was freakin' booby-trapped. He shone the penlight on his finger. A thick splinter was lodged in his skin, and he yanked it out. Ransacking her closet would likely blind him. It had to be rigged with sharp-heeled shoes to stab prying eyes.

He finished searching her desk, but unless it had secret compartments, his keys were elsewhere ... a _nywhere._ Jackie's room had too many hiding spots, and her rhythmic breathing acted like a countdown clock. The longer he stayed, the more of a chance he'd be caught. Explaining himself to her parents wouldn't work. His evidence, the car parked in their backyard, was also Jackie's. She just had to twist the story around and say he'd driven the Camino here himself.

Ending this caper would be the right call. The smart call, but searching her dressers was worth the risk. He turned toward the bigger one, and a hint of silver glinted at him. The penlight beam had caught the bedroom door. Specifically, the coat rack nailed to it, comprised of wooden letters spelling out Jackie's name. Each letter had a metal hook, and dangling from the J was a key chain.

His key chain.

It was mounted on the wall like an animal trophy. He'd been right about her, but how? Why did he get her so well? He didn't want to get her, but he did. It soured his stomach. It was a problem, but fixing it had to wait.

He snatched his keys and stuffed them into his jeans pocket. All he had to do now was grab something of hers and leave. Nothing he'd seen so far had left an impression. Taking her promise ring from Kelso would be the most commensurate punishment, but he couldn't touch her. She'd wake up and attack him. Maybe accuse him of trying to do more than steal her ring.

Her body was off-limits, but her closet wasn't. It held some of her most prized possessions: her clothes. Stabbing shoes aside, that was where he had to go.

He took slow, quiet steps toward his prey, but the toe of his boot caught on a soft object. Kicking it aside would cause trouble, so he picked it up. The material was soft and squishy. A pillow? But it had a strange shape. Bumpy, like gear.

Jackie's sheets swished. She uttered another wordless noise, and it propelled him forward. He dropped the pillow but tripped on another. His center of gravity shifted. He couldn't recover, and his body slammed into the floor.

"Huh?" Jackie said, sounding barely awake.

The impact of his fall buzzed through his skin. He remained flat on the carpet but said, "Congrats, Jackie. You've, uh … won Point Place's Prettiest Princess contest."

"I have?"

"Yup." He reached blindly for the penlight. It hadn't flown far, unlike time. Jackie was going to wake completely if her ego didn't buy what he was selling. "You beat out Julie Halverson, Pam Macy, and Kat Peterson."

"I did?"

"Yeah, man. You're..." _Damn it._ Complimenting her was like cutting off his 'nads, but he had to lull her to dreamland."You're totally hot. Big brown eyes, adorable as hell nose, and, uh … super hair?"

She expelled a breath. "What about my mouth?"

 _Crap._ What he actually thought of her mouth would wake her for sure, and his fist closed around the penlight. "Your mouth's as beautiful as it is loud."

"Thank you, Steven."

"No problem," he said and cringed. The game was over. He'd played it wrong, but she sighed, and her sheets swished again. Was he in the free and clear? Had she fallen back asleep?

He sat up and put his backpack on his lap. The closet was a no-go, but her two weirdly-shaped pillows lay by his feet. They'd have to do, and he crammed them into his backpack.

Jackie didn't react as he crawled to the open window. Escape was inches away, but he had to be be thorough Only a sloppy burglar left evidence, and he restacked the books he'd knocked over earlier.

His fingers gripped the window sill. He stuck his head into the chilly night air, but getting from the window to the ladder without a spotter wasn't going to happen. Too much of a gap existed between the sill and the rungs. He was liable to kick the fucking ladder out from under him.

Only one option was left: leaving the house like an invited guest. He shut the window but not completely. Those few inches would help conceal his entry. He crept to the bedroom door as sweat soaked his shirt. Jackie could catch him any moment, but she only breathed.

The second-foor hallway was pitch black. He turned on the penlight, and it lit a path to the staircase. The steps were carpeted, but they creaked as he descended. Was the house trying to rat him out? That would account for the Burkharts' lack of security measures: the house itself was alive.

He smacked the center of his forehead. Who was he, Kelso? The house wasn't alive or out to get him, but he did have to get out of it. His intrusion would land him in jail if Jackie's parents woke.

He reached the first floor and took a right at the ticking grandfather clock. His gaze was fixed on the French doors. They were glowing subtly, drawing him toward freedom. The stone pedestals outside had to be responsible. Silently, he thanked his inanimate accomplices—and collided with a large piece of furniture.

His yelp mixed with a cacophony of notes. Jackie and her parents would definitely wake after that ruckus. The furniture was their grand piano. Its fallboard had been left open, and he revised his earlier thought: the house _was_ out to get him.

He bolted for the French doors, unlatched the lock, and didn't quit moving once he was in the backyard. His chest burned as he retracted the ladder to its shortest length. His breathing was off, his mind was off, but he dumped the ladder into the Camino's flatbed without any trouble.

His key slid satisfyingly into the car door. He could've skipped the cat-burglar act, picked the lock and hot-wired the ignition, but his baby deserved better. He sat behind the wheel and turned on the engine. The Camino's healthy growl lifted his lips into a smile, but envisioning his escape stole all joy.

The driveway gate was padlocked.

He leaned his head back and groaned. Here he was, calling Jackie an amateur when he wasn't much better. Any second, the shriek and flash of police sirens would herald his fate. Prison. It sat at number two on his roster of possible futures. Number one was pumping gas, and number three was premature death. Each a Zonk, as if his life were a chumps-only version of _Let's Make a Deal_.

The cold, constricting memory of handcuffs surfaced in his wrists. He'd been to jail before, thanks to Jackie. She caused him trouble more often than not, but if his life were a game show, what was her part in it? The model who presented the prize curtains?

He shifted the Camino into first gear, and gravel crunched beneath the tires as he drove. Curtain number two was still avoidable. He didn't have to go to prison if he worked fast.

He parked a distance from the driveway gate. The Camino's headlights shone on it, and he got out of the car, clutching his lock-picking tools. But the padlock was open. The shackle was hooked through the gate's latch uselessly, like someone had forgotten it. Weird, just like this whole night. The Burkharts' security sucked to begin with, but what they did have wasn't being utilized.

He slipped the padlock from the latch and opened the gate wide. Were Jackie's folks even home? He didn't know enough about her life to make an educated guess, but their absence would explain the ease of his getaway.

He drove the Camino off the Burkharts' property and parked on the street. No cops were in sight. If he drove away now, curtain number two wouldn't open, but he walked back to the gate. He locked it with the padlock and shook his head at his compulsion—and the irony. What kind if burglar secured a house after he'd broken into it?


	2. The Maze

**Disclaimer:** _That '70s Show_ copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.

CHAPTER TWO  
 **THE MAZE**

Jackie sat on the edge of her bed, arms covered in gooseflesh. The morning sun had turned her room gold, but her mind was lead. Last night's nightmare had infested her body. She'd won Point Place's Prettiest Princess contest, and first prize was to make love to Steven Hyde.

 _Making love to Steven._

What kind of prize was that? She rubbed her arms to stop the prickling, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. She was smiling at the memory of Steven's voice, of his lips on her neck, of his presence between her legs.

Insane, that was what she'd become. She'd gone crazy from withholding sex from Michael. It was her revenge on him for a list of growing offenses: his dreams about Donna, his modeling career, his hypocrisy about her kissing another boy. Her vengeance fit his crimes, but depriving him was punishing her, too.

She missed the excitement of making love. Stealing, though, gave her an equal rush. It was a good substitute for sex, and taking Steven's car yesterday had lit her up like nothing else.

Except her nightmare about him.

Blood heated her neck. She rubbed her arms harder, but the gooseflesh remained. Dreaming about Steven wasn't acceptable. Boys on TV or in movies, okay. They were famous, weren't friends with Michael, and probably wouldn't get the chance to kiss her in real life. But Steven … he'd kissed her last year, waking nerve endings she never knew she had. It was a frightening experience, one her heart still hadn't processed.

She bent toward the floor and reached for her flower pillows. Her mom had bought the pair two years ago as an _I-love-you_ gift. Jackie adored them. They comforted her during her parents' absence or when Michael was being a jerk. She needed their comfort now, but her fingers clutched at carpet.

The pillows weren't where she remembered dropping them. She scanned the floor, but they weren't by the bathroom door or her desk. They weren't anywhere at all, unless her toss had gone so far astray that they'd hit the windows.

She searched behind her curtains but found no pillows. Lying beneath the window sills, however, was her plunder from the library: a stack of books. It served as an elegant monument to her thievery, but the elegance was gone. The books were no longer piled from largest to smallest but haphazardly, as if someone had restacked them.

Her breath halted at the thought, and she examined the windows. The right-most pane wasn't open enough. She always used a scratch on the frame as a marker. Opening the window to that spot let in air without freezing the room, but the pane was a half-inch below it.

Someone had broken into her room.

Her lungs finally took in air, and she screamed. Dashed into the hallway and screamed. Banged on her parents' door and screamed. Her mom's groggy face appeared, and she continued to scream.

"Jackie—Jackie, your father's asleep!" Her mom shut the door behind her. "Calm down and tell me what's wrong."

"A-a-a burglar!" Jackie managed to say.

"There was a break-in?" Her mom vanished into her room and reappeared wearing a fluffy bathrobe. "Where? How do you know?"

Jackie grasped her mom's wrist and dragged her across the hallway. They were beside Jackie's bed moments later. "See?" Jackie said, waving at the floor. "My flower pillows are missing! And those books over there? They've been disturbed, and the window—"

"Honey, are you sure you didn't just misplace the pillows?"

"No! Someone took them."

Her mom glanced around the room. "But your hi-fi and TV are still here." She exhaled a long breath, and her posture drooped, as if tension had been propping her up. "Sweetheart, this is the safest neighborhood in town. We don't have thieves. We have pool boys—and why would a burglar steal pillows?"

"For the thrill."

"What?"

Jackie didn't repeat herself, but her mom had a point. Why would someone sneak into her room just to take pillows? "My clothes!" she shouted and rushed to her closet.

She began a thorough inspection but stopped at her dad's voice. "What's all the commotion about?" he said by her desk. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his silk robe. That move was sure to leave a stain, but neither Jackie nor her mom mentioned it. "Did you have a nightmare, kitten?"

"Yes," she said, "but that's not—"

"Well!" Her mom clapped her hands once and smiled. "That's explains things. Jack..." she eased her arm around his back, "let's go have some breakfast, shall we? And maybe open the safe."

"Open the safe?" he said.

"Just a precaution." She ushered him into the hallway, and their voices faded.

Jackie shoved aside one of her coats. Her closet was thick with clothing, and nothing seemed to be missing, but just once couldn't her parents take her seriously? Unless she was talking about grades or boys, money or popularity, they never listened.

Their lack of attention, however, didn't change facts. A thief had been in her room last night, but why? He hadn't ravaged her closet, and an investigation of her dressers brought no new evidence. Her desk, though, presented a clue. The drawers were a disorganized mess. The thief's hands had definitely been inside them, but her diary was in its proper place. Her pens and sheets of unicorn stickers were all accounted for, too.

She returned to the windows and opened one wide. The cool, morning air saturated her lungs, but it left her in another scream.

Steven's car was gone. Her greatest trophy. It should've been parked below, but only grass met her eyes.

She stumbled to the bedroom door. Her _JACKIE_ coat rack was still nailed to it, but icy fingers seized her heart. The thief had stolen Steven's keys right off the J. He'd skulked around her room while she slept. A stranger.

Shivers crawled up her back and made her lips tremble. Who would do such a thing, rob her in the middle of the night? She'd taken Steven's car without any witnesses—hadn't she?

Maybe someone had watched from the Formans' bushes, intending to steal the El Camino for himself, only Jackie had stolen it first. He'd followed her home and waited until she was asleep. Then he climbed in through her window, grabbed Steven's keys, and used her flower pillows during his getaway.

Or he was a sicko. The pillows were his quarry, and the El Camino was an unexpected convenience.

Blood throbbed in her fingertips and behind her eyes. Her thrill-seeking had led to this trouble. Hurting Michael was one thing. He'd earned it, but she'd never meant to hurt Steven. His car was lost forever.

She slammed her palms against the window sill. _Not forever._ She was a Burkhart, and Burkharts had money and resources. That skeevy, pillow-loving thief wouldn't get away with his crimes.

* * *

The dining room smelled like coffee and bacon. The aroma rumbled Jackie's stomach, but she was too distracted to eat. Her parents sat together at the marble-topped table, but they acted as if they were in separate rooms. Her mom flipped the pages of a tabloid magazine, and a newspaper obscured her dad's face as Martina, the housekeeper, served breakfast.

"Good morning, Miss Jackie," Martina said and put a plate of eggs Benedict at Jackie's usual seat.

"Morning." Jackie's mouth watered. The hollandaise-smothered eggs were tempting, but she stuck to her agenda. She clanked her fork on the plate, hoping to get her dad's attention. "We have to report a stolen car."

Her dad lowered the newspaper. "The Lincoln?"

"No—" She tried to give a more detailed answer, but his eyes went wide behind his glasses.

"Not the Maserati," he said, and the paper crinkled in his hands. "Jackie, your cheating, doofus boyfriend is never to touch my Maserati! Why did you—"

"I didn't!" She gripped the edge of the table. "And Michael isn't a cheater anymore, Daddy, so stop calling him that."

Her mom finally looked up from her magazine. "Jack, no one stole the cars. Our daughter just wants some attention." Her gaze moved to Jackie with apparent concern, but exasperation soaked her voice. "What can we do for you, sweetheart? Is Michael still acting weird because you kissed that boy from work? Is that what your nightmare was about?"

Jackie's grip on the table tightened. "No. It's—oh, never mind!"

She fled the house and ran to Donna's neighborhood. She could've taken the Lincoln or the bus, but too much energy quaked in her body. It needed to be expended. Sweat dampened her skin and flattened her hair, but it was a small price to pay. Instead of sobbing, she could form complete sentences by the time she reached the Pinciottis' kitchen.

"Where's Donna?" she said. Bob and his girlfriend, Joanne, were eating breakfast at the table. "I need to talk to her. _Now._ "

"Well, good morning to you, too," Joanne said, but her cranky attitude wasn't unexpected. She was dating Bob, after all.

Jackie could've offered some advice, like _dump Bob_ or—no. _Dump Bob_ was all she had, but she sped into the living room, where Donna was watching TV. The couch seemed to dwarf her—a feat, considering Donna's height— and a giant glass bowl of cereal sat on her lap.

"Donna," Jackie shouted, "someone stole Steven's car!"

"Yeah, I know," Donna said and scooped cereal into her mouth. "You."

"No, I—wait." Jackie sat on the couch and patted Donna's knee frantically. Milk sloshed out of Donna's bowl, but Jackie said, "How do you know I took it? How do you know that?"

Donna slapped Jackie's hand away. "Watch it, you little freak! You're getting cereal everywhere."

"Your couch is a hideous powder blue, Donna. A little cereal won't make it uglier."

"Whatever. We saw Hyde's car parked at your house."

Jackie's eyebrows rose. The morning was getting weirder and weirder. " _We?_ "

"Yeah. Me, Eric, Kelso, Fez, and _Hyde._ "

"Steven knows I—" Jackie voice caught. She coughed to clear it, but her heart hammered in her chest. "That doesn't matter now. The car's been stolen from _me._ A thief snuck into my room last night, and—what am I going to do?" Her breathing shallowed, turning the living room into an aqua-silver blur. "Steven's gonna kill me! He loves that car."

Donna didn't answer. She shoveled cereal into her mouth, and the spoon clinked against the glass bowl.

Jackie hit Donna's knee again. "Don't just sit there eating, you goon! If you'd stolen Eric's car to get revenge on him for the break-up, and someone stole the car from you—though why anyone would steal that clunker is beyond me—I'd help you."

"Fine," Donna said with a groan. "Wait here." She put the bowl on the coffee table and stood. "I have an uncle who's a cop."

"Doesn't he live in New Jersey?"

"Yes, but he could still help. I have to get the number from my dad." She went to the bar by the window and returned with a pad of paper and pencil. "Write down everything you can remember about Hyde's car—where you parked it, left the keys; that kind of stuff. I'll be back in a minute."

She disappeared into the kitchen, and Jackie got to writing, sparing no detail. The more information she put down, the more Donna's uncle would believe it—unlike Jackie's parents. They were useless, especially since they stopped providing her with money. Dating Michael again had more consequences than she'd anticipated, but at least she had a true friend.

At least she had Donna.

* * *

Hyde locked the door to his room, giving him and Donna privacy. She had news, and he couldn't wait to hear it. "So," he said, "what'd Jackie say?"

She sat on the dusty ottoman close to his cot. Her fingers drummed on her knees, and her lips twitched into a smile. "She's completely freaked that the Camino was 'stolen' from her—and creeped out a thief picked through her room while she slept."

He smirked, despite the guilt slithering in his stomach. "All right. What about the pillows?"

"The what?"

He turned over the blanket on his cot, revealing Jackie's flower-shaped pillows. The pair was green and pink, a vestige of the '60s. Leo would probably dig them, but they didn't fit the gray of Hyde's room.

Donna laughed. "You took her pillows? Out of everything she owns, that's what you grabbed?"

"I had no time, man. She was only half-asleep."

"Well, I don't think she's noticed their disappearance. She's too preoccupied with your car."

"Crap." He put his blanket back over the pillows. Swiping them had been pointless. "Camino's in the garage. Once Jackie's outta the neighborhood, I'm gonna stash it at Leo's where she won't find it. Let her sweat a little."

Donna nodded. "Good idea, but I better go." She pushed herself off the ottoman and headed for the door. "She thinks I came over here to call my uncle about the car. You know, the one from Jersey? Anyway, I told her I'd use the Formans' phone so Eric's parents would be charged with the long-distance bill—"

"And blame Forman for the expense." He got the angle. Jackie loved burns on Forman, and it made Donna's story's believable. "Pinciotti," he punched her shoulder affectionately, "you've got a future in this business."

"And what business is that?"

He grinned. "The lying-to-Jackie business. It's an expanding enterprise, man. I'm in it. Kelso and Forman are in it. Welcome to the family."

"Shut up." She unlocked his door. "I'm only doing this to keep her out of trouble. The way she's going, she'll end up in jail for shoplifting—or grand larceny."

She left him, and he relocked the door, imagining Jackie in a prison cell. Her future wasn't supposed to go that route. That was his road, and he grabbed one of her pillows, as if it would tell him her secrets. A month ago, she'd kissed a guy who wasn't her boyfriend and now she was stealing cars. But people didn't become cheaters or thieves because they were happy. Those were the acts of someone in trouble. Of someone who felt trapped, like him.

He dropped her pillow, but that didn't kill his concern. His own life was a maze, possibly one with no exit. Going left, going right—it didn't matter. Whichever way he went, Jackie was a part of the map.


	3. The Breakout

**Disclaimer:** _That '70s Show_ copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.

CHAPTER THREE  
 **THE BREAKOUT**

Jackie had given Michael permission to sit with her. They were alone in the Formans' basement, a rare occurrence these days. His arm snaked around her shoulders, but she didn't cuddle into him. Spring break was more than half-over, and it had been a sexless, horrible disaster. The lack of romance she could blame on Michael, but the disaster? That was all her.

She'd lost Steven's car. Poor and orphaned Steven, who didn't have parents to buy him a new one. The Formans, though well-intentioned, could barely afford to clothe him. So—unless his boss, that dirty old hippie, had another El Camino buried somewhere—she needed to get that car back.

"Hey, who do you think is hotter," Michael said, gesturing to the TV, "Mr. Spacely or Mr. Cogswell?"

She blinked. "What?"

"The short, mustached dude and the tall, big-nosed dude. Who would you rather do it with?"

"Ew. Neither of them."

"But they're rich."

"And old and not real, Michael!"

He squeezed her shoulder. "I'm real. How about you do it with me again … _finally?_ "

She scooted away from him, putting a whole couch cushion between them. Ever since kissing Todd, she'd agreed to most of Michael's non-sexual requests. Watching _The Jetsons_ was one of them, but she hated shows about space. And Michael pawing at her during every commercial break didn't make it better..

"I'm not ready yet," she said. "I told you that."

"Damn, Jackie, it's been over a week! Spring break's all about having non-stop sex. We're wasting our Mother-Nature-given opportunity to do it!"

"I don't care."

"Why? 'Cause you've been too busy licking the roof another guy's mouth?"

She slapped the couch, hard enough to make her palm sting. "God, would you stop saying that? There are more important things going on besides your crazy paranoia, Michael!"

"Yeah? Like what?"

Like finding Steven's car, but she couldn't tell Michael that. He'd blab the truth to Steven, who believed his El Camino was safe in her garage. Steven hadn't confronted her about it yet, but according to Donna he was plotting revenge. That would buy Jackie time but not much. The car had been missing for over twenty-four hours. If she didn't return it to him in one piece, he'd never forgive her.

He might even have her arrested.

"Come on, Jackie," Michael said and squeezed her shoulder again. "How am I supposed to believe you don't wanna 'prove your love' to other guys if you won't prove it to me?"

The basement door slammed open before she could answer. Donna rushed inside and said, "Bad news—"

Jackie shot off the couch. "Not here!" She dashed to Steven's room, and Donna followed.

"What bad news?" Michael called after them, but Jackie shut the door, blocking out his voice. Her behavior was sure to increase his suspicions, but she'd have to deal with that later.

"So," Donna said in the darkness of Steven's room, "my uncle's contacts in the Point Place PD found the car."

"And?" Jackie needed light. She waved her hand through the air, and it smacked into the pull cord. She tugged it, turning on the room's bare bulb. "Where is it?" she said. "Did they tow it somewhere safe?"

Donna picked at a hangnail and didn't look her in the eye. "It's been stripped for parts. All they found was, like, the chassis and the front bumper with the license plate."

Jackie covered her mouth. Her ribs must have dissolved because her chest was caving in. "Oh, God," she said, though it resembled a hiccup. "Donna, what am I gonna do?"

"Come clean. Tell Hyde the car was stolen from you."

"Or I can beg my dad to buy him a new one. A better one."

"Didn't your dad cut you off for dating Kelso again? Isn't that why you're working at the Cheese Palace?"

"Damn!" Jackie's face grew hot. "You're right. I'll have to work overtime … for the next four years!"

She threw herself onto Steven's cot and buried her head in his pillow. Tears dampened the pillowcase, but with each crying breath, her stomach pressed into something lumpy. She sat up, wiped her eyes, and slid her palm over the blanket. The pattern of lumps was familiar. Too familiar.

She yanked the blanket back, and her breath caught. Staring up at her, with their pink and green petals, were her flower pillows.

"Steven...?" she said. "Steven stole my pillows?" She hugged one to make certain she wasn't hallucinating. "Donna, these are them—the ones I told you about!"

"That's impossible." Donna snatched the pillow Jackie wasn't holding and examined it. "He must've gone to the mall and bought his own."

Jackie narrowed her eyes. Donna sounded just like a cheerleader, fake as hell. "Cut the crap, Pinciotti. What do you know?"

"Nothing!"

"Just like you knew nothing about Michael cheating on me with Laurie?"

Donna's shoulders slumped, and she pulled on the sleeves of her blouse. "All right!" she said after ten seconds of silence and sank to the cot. "Hyde snuck into your house the other night and stole your pillows."

"And?"

"And he might've taken back his car keys."

 _Steven._ Steven had been the one creeping around Jackie's room. It explained her dream that night. It explained everything, and relief poured into her chest. "So the Camino's safe? It hasn't been stripped?"

"It's fine," Donna said. "Hyde's been keeping it in Leo's garage."

Jackie squeezed her pillow until her knuckles hurt. "That scruffy, conniving car stealer! He let me worry about his stupid Camino for almost two days, and you're his accomplice!"

"Jackie, to be fair, you stole his car first."

"Yes, but..." An idea crashed into her mind, and she smiled at the smoking wreckage. "I know exactly how to get him back."

* * *

The lingering scent of weed soaked every part of the Fotohut, but the most potent of it oozed from Leo. He was sleeping off his pre-shift high at the film-processing counter, and Hyde envied him. Work had kept Hyde too busy to indulge in their circle. He was organizing rolls of film practically sober. People had taken a crap-load of pictures this spring. That was good for business, but Leo would be up all night, developing photos.

A car engine vibrated the Fotohut's walls. Another customer, and Hyde put on his most polite face. No one showed at the drive-through window, though, and the street was clear of cars. Weird. Maybe Leo's snoring had shaken the walls, but a frenzied knock rattled the Fotohut's door.

Leo snorted at the noise but didn't wake. Hyde went to the door, unsure if he should open it or grab a bottle of stop bath. A dose of chemicals would stall a robber, but who would bust in through the back? Anyone planning to steal from the Fotohut would go to the drive-through, where the cash box was.

Hyde glanced at the window, in case the robber had an accomplice, but no one lurked outside. Some moron probably thought the Fotohut had a bathroom. "Use the Fatso Burger across the street!" Hyde shouted at the door. "This ain't an outhouse!"

A muffled voice answered. "Steven, let me in. It's an emergency!"

 _Jackie._ She'd must've come to confess.

He unlocked the door, and Jackie darted inside. Her face was a streaky mess of mascara, and but her mouth was worse. It had contorted into a horror-movie frown, as if she'd evaded a chainsaw-wielding psycho.

"Steven, I'm so, so sorry!" she said, clutching his arm. "I never meant for it to go this far!"

He covered her fingers on his arm, intending to pry them off, but his hand froze there. Had she swiped something else from him?

She let out an anguished cry. "Oh, it's all my fault! I was on this thieving kick, and Donna told me you know I stole your car. But what you don't know is that someone stole it from me!"

Tears fell from her eyes, and she brought his hand to the center of her chest. Her heart pounded beneath his fingers, pushing hot chills into his skin. The sensation was terrifying. It was addictive, and the last time he'd felt anything close was on her Lincoln, during their one and only date.

When they'd kissed.

He shivered as his emotions turned physical. Experiencing that again with her was bad. Unacceptably bad, and he yanked his hand from her. "Jackie, I—"

"No, let me finish. Last night, I drove all over town with the Lincoln, searching the back alleys of Point Place—"

He stared at her through his shades. "Point Place doesn't have any back alleys, except the exit to The Hub's parking lot. "

"Steven, I found him." She inhaled a stuttering breath, and Leo stirred in his chair. "I must have found him—the car thief—because I was attacked by a man in a ski mask. He had a crowbar and a knife, and he dragged me from the Lincoln and stole it!"

She grasped the front of Hyde's denim jacket and pulled herself to him. Her body warmed his stomach, but his blood turned to frost. "I've never been more scared," she said. "I had to walk three miles in the dark to get back home!"

Her voice vanished into sobs, and his guts twisted. He'd let his vengeance go on too long. He should've known she'd get herself in trouble.

"This guy..." he said slowly, and his arms glided around her back. His gaze fixed on the Fotohut's door, but all he saw was Jackie, being held-up at at knifepoint. "He didn't do anything more than get you outta the car, right?"

"He threatened me with the crowbar," she said into his chest. "Told me he'd bash in my skull if I didn't give him the car."

"Shit." He held her tighter and pressed his cheek against her temple, making sure she was still warm and breathing. "You weren't supposed to get hurt, man. Just wanted to teach you a lesson."

"What are you talking about?"

His shoulders and neck stiffened. Explanations wouldn't undo what'd he'd let happen. "I'm sorry," he said, shutting his eyes. "I'm really sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?" She pushed free of him, and fresh tears shone in her lashes. "Steven, I—"

"The Camino's fine," he said. "I stole it back from you and hid it in Leo's garage."

"I have a garage, man?" Leo mumbled in his sleep.

Hyde spared him a glance, but Jackie said, "Why? Why would you do that?"

"Tried to teach you a lesson about stealing from friends," he said, and a smile brightened her mascara-stained face. "What?"

"We're friends?"

"Focus, Jackie." He massaged his knotted-up neck. It was growing tenser by the second. "Our collective, screwed-up judgment put you in danger, man. Look at this place." He moved a finger in a circle, indicating the Fotohut. "We've got a problem when a shack in the middle of the road is safer than where we live."

"What are you saying?" She stepped back, but he grasped her hand. "Steven?"

He'd acted reflexively. His mind yelled at him to let her go, but he needed her close, and she voluntarily returned to him. Her fingers wrapped around his palm, as if to reassure him. But he was the one who owed her reassurance and more. "Are your folks home?" he said.

"Yes, but I don't understand what—."

"They leave you alone sometimes, though. Your dad goes away on business, and your ma..."

"Takes the occasional spa weekend, but I'm never alone. I've always got the housekeeper." She jostled his hand. "Could _you_ focus, please? I almost died last night because of you."

His eyes flicked to the Fotohuts shelves, but she was seared onto his optic nerve. "The security at your place sucks," he said. "You've got to get a better driveway gate, man. A tall one that locks automatically. Padlock on the one you have was open the night I took the Camino back."

"It was?" She dragged his hand to her hip and pressed his knuckles against it. "I didn't even think about that."

His index finger hooked one of her belt loops. He could've tugged her closer. His body begged him to, but his survival instinct kicked in, and his finger withdrew. His life was fucked up enough. He wouldn't make it worse by indulging in feelings he shouldn't have.

"Those spikes on the gate you've got aren't a deterrent, either," he said. "Any idiot can jump over 'em—and someone determined enough'll do more than that. You're lucky it was just me who broke into your room."

"Hah!" She thrust his hand from her. "You stole my pillows, too, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"I know. Because I found them in your cot."

The tension in his shoulders and neck rose to his forehead. "You were in my room again?"

She nodded. "I see what you mean about the Fotohut being safer than where we live. You should really lock your door."

"That's not what—" He squeezed his jaws together. No one knew he had only a week left at the Formans', that turning eighteen meant becoming homeless. His gray book of contacts had more blank pages than phone numbers, but he had the Camino. He could sleep in his car until he got enough dough to rent an apartment.

"Did it feel good to steal them?" she said, and he looked at her dumbly. "My pillows. Did you like taking them?"

"What the hell does that matter?" His head was pounding, and his eyes ached. He rolled his shoulders, attempting to force the tension from them, but Jackie's demeanor had completely shifted. Panic no longer shook her voice, and she wasn't crying. In fact, she was peering around the Fotohut, as if casing the joint.

"Stealing gives me such a high," she said and moved away from him. He didn't stop her this time. She went past Leo, who continued to snore, and snatched a box of film from the shelves. "Maybe I should arm myself with a crowbar and a knife. Then I could steal bigger and better things."

A strange laugh bubbled in her throat. It began as a giggle and grew into a cackle, loud enough to make Leo jump in his chair. "Who let in the witches, man?" he muttered. "I don't wanna fly on no stinkin' broom. Sweeping the sky's God's job."

Hyde's skin prickled. Jackie had lost her freakin' mind, and he maneuvered around the photo-processing counter to her. "You sure the thief didn't hit you over the head?" he said. "'Cause you're talkin' crazy."

She passed the box of film to him. "You care about me."

"If by care, you mean I don't like some asshole threatening you, then yeah. I care." He put the film back on the shelf, but his hand shook while he did it. Fear was gaining ground, and he inhaled three deep breaths to calm himself. Jackie's mood had changed too fast to be sane. He was no shrink, but going from crying to laughing couldn't be a good sign. "Maybe you should let a doctor check you out, to make sure you're—"

"I wasn't attacked, Steven." She tugged on the hem of his denim jacket. "Donna told me you stole your car back—but I wanted to hear it from you, so I put on this act."

"You were lying..." His body swayed as the tension left it. He leaned against the counter for support, but his skull continued to pound. "This whole thing was a scam?"

She gestured to her makeup-smeared cheeks. "How did I do?"

"How'd you do?" His voice was barely audible, even to him, and the force of his scowl hurt his face. "You're..." _safe,_ but he couldn't tell her that, so he tried again. "You're..." a loon. Crazy enough to send him to the nuthouse, but his feelings for her would get him there first. She was off-limits, someone he was in no position to protect. Someone he desperately needed to forget.

"I'm what, Steven?" She tapped his wrist until his eyes focused on her. "What do you think I am?"

Her face resembled wet newspaper, but the sight of it crammed his stomach with porcupines. Those big brown eyes, that adorable as hell nose, that mouth he craved to taste again—they stabbed him from the inside-out. "You're..." someone he had to forget for both their sakes, but she was embedded in him, deeper than he could extract.

"Point Place's Prettiest Princess?" she said for him. "'Totally hot' with 'super hair'?"

The jig was a hundred percent up. She remembered his lame attempt at coaxing her back to sleep, and his lips relaxed into a grin. "An evil genius, man. That's what you are: completely and utterly evil."

* * *

Jackie cupped her forehead and blew out a slow breath. Steven didn't hate her. He even seemed amused, and she looked back at the dirty old hippie. Leo's snoring echoed off the Fotohut's walls, and his smell probably explained Steven's behavior. Steven had to be at least a little high.

Why else would he have held her?

He'd expressed enough concern tonight to make her cry real tears, but she couldn't indulge in such thoughts. They'd lead her to places he wouldn't go.

"Mind tellin' me why you've been stealing crap?" he said and, as if to underscore his question, grabbed ten dollars from the Fotohut's cash box. "Is it 'cause your dad quit givin' you dough?"

"No. I got the taste for it when Donna and I snooped in Casey's room." She drummed her fingers on the photo-processing counter. But it had to be covered in chemicals, ones that would yellow her manicure, and she withdrew her hand. "I stole his clock radio, and Michael caught us—sort of. He was mostly asleep, but you know what that idiot said? That he wanted to have sex with Donna!"

Her fists clenched at the memory. If she'd been talking to anyone but Steven, she would have shut up. The story was embarrassing, but he knew how bad Michael could be. He'd understand her motives.

"I would've let it go," she said, "because everyone has weird sex dreams sometimes, right? But the pig went on about it the next day while he was awake!"

"I'm awake!" Leo's eyes snapped open, and he sat up straight

"No, you're not, man," Steven said. "This is a dream. You know, one of those where ya think you're awake, but you're really not?"

"Oh." Leo slumped back into his chair. His eyes closed, and his mouth dropped open with heavy, rhythmic breathing.

Jackie scoffed. "So gullible."

"So stoned."

Her spine stiffened. "Like you?"

"Nope." He leaned his back against the drive-through counter. "Barely touched the stuff. But if I were toasted, maybe I'd get how Kelso's sex dream turned you into Maindrian Pace."

"Who?"

" _Gone in Sixty Seconds?_ "

"Stealing your car took longer than sixty seconds."

He shook his head at her. "Man, you gotta watch more movies."

Her nails dug into her palms. Each beat of her her heart stung, as if her blood was full of hornets. "Whatever, Steven. You're busy working. You have your car. I'll just go—"

"Jackie, I'm not tryin' to get rid of you. I'm tryin' to get you to finish your damn story. _Gone in Sixty Seconds_ is a movie where Maindrian Pace steals cars." He flipped the cash box lid open and closed, and his voice softened. "Get it now?"

The hornets in her blood drowned. "Fine, yes," she said, stepping closer to him. But he crossed his arms over his chest, meaning his body was off-limits. Not that she should be touching it. Or wanted to touch it, but her skin tingled with the memory of him touching her—in life, in her dream—memories she had to banish from her mind.

"Michael," she said, and her voice cracked. "This is all about Michael. The next day after his sex dream about Donna, I sneaked into Casey's room by myself. Michael was sleeping in there again—don't ask me why—and I talked to him. I wanted to make him have a sex dream about _me._ I told him we were going to do it, and he says, 'Where's Donna?'"

She slapped the photo-processing counter. Michael's promise ring clinked against it and bit into her finger. _"'Where's Donna,'"_ she repeated. "Can you believe that?"

"Yup."

"That's no help."

He shrugged. "Guys dream about screwing pretty much every chick. It's our nature. Doesn't mean we're gonna act on it."

"Have you ever dreamed about sleeping with me?" The question had been parked in her head for two days. It should've stayed there, but it sped out her mouth made her her cheeks burn. "I just mean, has—has Eric?" She slid Michael's promise ring halfway off her finger. She rubbed the tender flesh beneath, but nothing would soothe her raw heart. "I know Fez has. Of course he has."

Her throat closed up, but Steven didn't seem fazed. His palms beat out a rhythm on the drive-through counter, and his grin from before returned. "Like you said, everyone had weird sex dreams sometimes."

Her cheeks burned hotter at his answer. He hadn't insulted her for asking, hadn't denied dreaming about her, and that grin—it intrigued her. It infuriated her, and she did her best to ignore it.

"Well, I guess I get that," she said and pushed the promise ring flush against her knuckle, "but his dream still pisses me off. Michael won't shut up about my one slip with Todd. He keeps accusing me of cheating, and now he's fantasizing about other women?"

She removed a compact from her purse. Her face reflected in the small mirror, and she gasped. It wasn't fit for public view. She searched the Fotohut for a sink but found none. How did Steven and Leo develop photos in this cramped, ill-equipped shack?

"Here," Steven said and passed her a bottle of sparkling water. Leo had a stockpile of it beneath the drive-through counter, next to a stack of plastic bins.

She looked down at the bottle. Steven had opened it for her, and he put a plastic bin on the film-processing counter. "What are you doing?" she said. His kindness made no sense. She'd stolen his car, tricked him into thinking her life had been in danger. "What's all this for?"

He handed her a roll of paper towels. "You wanna wash your face, right?"

"Yes, but..." Some questions were better left unanswered, and she drenched a paper towel with water. "I'm sure Michael's already complained about this to you, but I cut him off." She scrubbed the makeup from her skin. The first paper towel filled with black, and she dropped it into the bin. "That's why I've been stealing. It's replaced the excitement of sex. Not that making love with Michael's all that exciting. It's more—"

"Let me stop you right there," he said. "Don't need the details."

Her cheeks continued to burn, despite the water dripping off them. Steven knew the pathetic truth about her thievery. Taking his car had been a huge mistake, her biggest thrill, but she was done stealing

She finished washing to Leo's snores, and a follow-up examination of her reflection confirmed her face was clean. _Thank God._ The moment she left the Fotohut, this ordeal would finally be over

"'Bye," she said, but Steven's gaze held her in place. He moved closer to the photo-processing counter. To her. His eyes were visible through his sunglasses, and they compelled her to speak. "I'm sorry. Is that what you want to hear? I'm sorry you keep getting tangled in my relationship with Michael."

She winced at the edge in her voice. It revealed the lie, that she wasn't sorry. Steven's presence anchored her and deranged her all at the same time. "I don't mean to involve you," she said, "and you have every right to be sick of me. But I can't change what's already happened: that obnoxious kiss on my Lincoln, taking your El Camino—"

"I'm always sick of ya," his hand rested on the roll of toilet paper, "but I never said that kiss was obnoxious. Plus, stealing my car was pretty badass."

Her cheeks flushed with fresh blood, but embarrassment had nothing to do with it. "Really?"

"Yeah, man. You got more stones than most people I know." He clasped her shoulder, something he'd done to Eric, Donna, and Fez many times. "But the next time you get a hankering to steal something that big, swipe Forman's car."

"That old clunker?" she said and wrinkled her nose, but a glorious vision in silver-blue glittered behind her eyes " Ooh, what about Mr. Forman's Corvette?"

"If you don't value your life, sure." His hand fell from her, but his warmth remained. He slapped the counter a few times, and his eyeball ring clanked on the surface. "Hey, Leo, man, my shift's over. Wake up!"

Leo sat up in the chair and rubbed his eyes. "Man, I had the strangest dream about witches sweeping my garage. It was, like, the most normal dream I've ever had."

Jackie glared at him. "You just said it was the strangest dream. How could it be the most normal dream you ever had?"

"That's what makes it strange, man. It was normal."

"Whatever." She opened the Fotohut's door, pleased that Steven seemed to think of her as a friend. But as the cool, night air swept into the Fotohut, he took her hand. It wasn't a tight grip or much of one at all. He was holding onto her ring finger and pinky, but his touch buzzed through her body. She craved more of it, and she put some annoyance into her voice. "What?"

"Wanna grab a burger?" he said, and his grip moved from her fingers to her palm. It created a stronger buzz in her skin and a secret, doomed hope that he craved more of her, too.

"Sure," she said, "but who's paying?"

He quirked up an eyebrow. "Who said anything about paying?"


End file.
